Labels like “Man Cave” can be well earned. At times, I understand my wife’s concern with style—or more appropriately, lack thereof. She’s outnumbered 4 to 1 (a 9-month-old male puppy further tilted the scales) and without her taste, discernment, and diligence home territory could easily become like the men’s floor of a college dorm. Doors close and sometimes that’s a good thing.
But there are two style-editing processes going on here, one overt and one featuring stealth bomber technology. The former is out in the daylight when she asks, “Are you going to wear that?” I scramble back to the closet but truthfully do not know what she is talking about. Of course, I’m going to wear “that.” What that is escapes me, but I presume it has to do with style.
For me, style is a feel not a look. While that may lift a brow or make others laugh or look away in horror, it feels good. A twenty-year-old T-shirt has earned its fraying and holiness. I’ve always felt the void in style for some of us could be filled by an adult Garanimals system. Although I think a tiger and an elephant could go just fine together for some occasion.
That other editing process took me two decades to figure out. It involves my taste in art. I love the Impressionists. I love van Gogh. The prints I’ve purchased migrate over the years ending up in the attic or in rather odd places. Café Terrace at Night is gone and its whereabouts unknown. A Starry Night magically negotiated the trek from prime wall space to the master bath where it hangs out of sight in the nook above the tub. One attending a viewing would at least have a seat of porcelain— though well below eye level.
I’m sorry Vincent. You deserve better and I appreciate your genius. This room was never meant for one as beautiful as you…
But maybe the quiet makes up for the location.
Photo credit: Luca Iaconelli (unsplash.com)